


what we are is not what we were

by Areiton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Character Study, Dreams and Nightmares, Facial Shaving, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:36:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Bucky doesn’t always recognize who he sees in the mirror.





	what we are is not what we were

**Author's Note:**

  * For [castelmax](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=castelmax).



> Happy birthday, kid.

Used to be, he couldn’t stand the sight of Sam. 

Used to be, Sam stood at Steve’s side, and it cut at him, the familiar way they inhabited each other’s space, the way Sam tipped toward him, deferential and the way Steve spoke without looking at him, like he  _ knows _ Sam will be there. 

Usted to be, that was Bucky’s space. That was  _ his _ job, to protect Steve’s back, to be his right hand and steady shield and seeing Sam Wilson there--it hurts, hurts in a way Hydra never quite managed. 

~*~ 

Sam doesn’t like him. 

Suits Bucky just fine, because the feeling is mutual, a deep seated jealous dislike that drives every snap and snarl. 

Sam doesn’t like him, and he doesn’t like Sam--but they both shove that aside, unspoken agreement, when Steve smiles at them, bright and hopeful and earnest. 

Bucky sighs because some things change, but making that damn punk happy won’t ever be one of them. 

~*~ 

Things do change, though. 

Bucky sees the worry in Steve’s eyes, the worry he’s never been good at hiding from Buck, and he isn’t sure if it’s because of the Accords and the dustup with Stark, or because Bucky is screaming himself awake four nights out of five, now. 

Sam finds him, on the dark cold steps, and he isn’t what--who--Bucky wants, but he’s solid and warm, leaning against Bucky, and he doesn’t comment as Bucky smokes his way through a pack of Newports, doesn’t say anything until Bucky finally sighs. 

And then, he nudges him with a knee and says, “Get some sleep, man.” 

~*~ 

Bucky doesn’t always recognize who he sees in the mirror. 

There’s a disconnect--he sees the ghost of a Brooklyn boy with a flirty smile in the quirk of his lips, and he can see the Winter Soldier in the gleam of his arm, and he can see the worry and fear of  _ Bucky _ in his eyes, when he watches Steve. 

But he sometimes sees himself, and it’s like looking at a stranger--dark circles under haunted eyes, long hair that hangs limp and uncared for in his face, and a scraggly beard that itches, hands that shake and lips that forgot how to smile. 

He doesn’t recognize himself, isn’t sure how Steve can see him and be so damn sure that Bucky is still hidden in the crevices and broken edges. 

He doesn’t recognize who he sees in the mirror. 

Sam though--Sam looks at him, and all he sees is Bucky--not the one he was, or Hydra’s pet, or the boy before the war. 

Just Bucky. 

He feels seen, in Sam’s warm gaze, and he doesn’t know why it’s reassuring. 

~*~ 

Steve leaves. 

Natasha goes with him. 

Bucky and Sam stay, circle each other in the tiny safe house. 

“He’ll come back,” Sam tells Bucky, the third night of empty rooms and quiet and Bucky gives him a flat, unfriendly stare. 

He doesn’t much appreciate some flyboy giving him reassurance about his own best friend. Even if the words did settle some of the unease in his gut. 

He finds himself in the bathroom, staring at a stranger, a razor shaking in his hand, and his eyes a little wild. 

“Easy,” Sam murmurs, and he’s slipping around, slipping in front of him, the razor eased from his grip. “Easy, man.” 

“I don’t recognize me,” he whispers and Sam’s eyes soften, impossibly. 

“Let me,” he says, offers, and Bucky watches him, unsure and untrusting, but  _ Steve  _ trusts him, and Sam is patient, waiting. 

He snaps, he snarls, he pokes and prods and insults--but when it comes down to what matters, Sam never pushes past where Bucky sets the boundaries. And he never lets Steve push either. 

Then tension eases in his shoulders and Bucky nods. 

~*~ 

Sam’s fingers on his jaw are gentle, and his gaze cool and somehow safe, and when he’s done, and Buck looks in the mirror--

“Do you recognize yourself?” he asks, soft and curious and Bucky shakes his head, sorrow welling hot and fast in his chest. 

“But it’s a little bit better,” he whispers. 

~*~ 

Used to be, he was a boy in Brooklyn, a boy like a million others, with a drunk daddy and a ma too tired to do much more than feed him, and a best friend constantly trying to die. 

Used to be, he was a soldier in a war he didn’t want to fight, a thousand miles from home, and lonely. 

Used to be, he was a killer, a blank slate, a weapon for his masters to use. 

He knows who he used to be--he just isn’t sure who he is  _ now. _

~*~ 

“I don’t like the name,” he says, one night, and Sam looks at him. They don’t talk, nights like this. He smokes and Sam sits next to him, and the world spins on, beyond the steps of whatever safehouse Nat tucks them into--but they don’t talk. 

He spends a lot of time, not talking to Sam Wilson. 

“Why?” 

He shrugs. Smokes the cigarette down to the filter and flicks it into the pot of sand Steve dragged up for just this reason. 

“It’s who I was.” Shrugs again. “Don’t know--it doesn’t makes sense.”

Sam watches him and says, “Who we are is not always what we were.” 

~*~ 

Steve frowns, the first time Sam calls him James, and Buck wrinkles his nose, and shakes his head. 

He tries again, Winter this time, and it shivers like a threat in the room, makes Nat go still and tense, makes Steve’s eyes go wide and furious, and Buck--Buck laughs and shakes his head. 

Barnes feels wrong, too informal and abrasive, almost like when they argue, and Bucky feels too much like someone else, but it’s closer than anything. 

“Buck, I dunno man,” Sam sighs around his ham sandwich. “I’m runnin’ outta ideas.” 

A memory tugs at him, of his sister shouting for him and Stevie. 

“Jamie,” he murmurs. “She used to call me Jamie.” 

Sam is watching, watching, watching, and Buck--Jamie--smiles at him, thin and hopeful. 

~*~ 

Steve still calls him Bucky, and Wilson still shout at him and calls him Barnes, and Nat watches with her cool cool eyes and calls him Yasha. 

But sometimes, when the night is slow and dark and sticky, Sam will touch his arm, will lean against him on the steps while smoke swirls around them and call him,  _ Jamie, _ and he thinks--maybe this is who I could be. 

~*~ 

Used to be, he hated Sam Wilson. 

Used to be, Sam stood at Steve’s side and it  _ hurt _ , cut deeper than Hydra, because that belonged to him, first, always. 

Used to be, they fought and bickered, and bitched. 

Now--

Now, Sam holds him steady with gentle hands and shaves his scruff and smiles when Bucky leans into him. 

Now, they sit in the dark and he talks, low and hoarse, about the nightmares and Hydra and everything he lost--about being broken and disappointing Steve. 

Now, Sam looks at him, and murmurs,  _ Jamie,  _ and he kisses him, kisses the name off his lips, licks into his mouth to taste Sam’s groan, and he thinks--

What we are is not what we were. 

And he’s damn glad that’s true. 


End file.
